


The Nature of Reality

by Angie (Angie13)



Category: Hellblazer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-23
Updated: 2006-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-25 07:40:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1639397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angie13/pseuds/Angie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Constantine is used to dictating his own reality.  It really puts his nose out of joint when reality has other ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Nature of Reality

**Author's Note:**

> I want to thank Tami and Katie and everyone who told me that, yes, I could move past the stupid line about fairies. What can I say? I'm a dork. <3
> 
> Written for Kouryou

 

 

There's something to be said about people making reality. I should know. I've just about said it all over the years. Most of it's complete shite, of course, but that never made it any less true. It's all in how you look at the thing and what the people looking want to believe. Prime example - Elvis. That fat bastard's dead and gone but people keep swearing black and blind that they've seen him doing all sorts of crazy shite. No one's got half a brain or an ounce of creativity anymore. Only reason to fake your death and downshift to fry cook at some little café is if you've really pissed off the big boys. Old Elvis Aaron Presley wouldn't have known a big boy if they bent him over and rogered him tender.

Of course, I'm not commenting on the likes of the royal family or Big Foot. Those keep their reality well enough to themselves and far be it from me to stick my nose in that wretched bloody festival of milquetoast wickedness. That sort of reality exists without the help of everyone believing in it.

That said, it will never bloody cease to amaze me what people will swallow. Coming from someone who has fed out tales like you wouldn't believe while off your head on goddamn hallucinogens, I think that makes me somewhat of an expert and you can trust me on this one. So I say again, people make reality what is it and that's why reality is so fucked sideways, forwards, backwards, and easy to manipulate.

No, I'm not legless. Fuck that, sonny jim. It's not closing yet. Hand over another.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. Reality. Just like causality but less rules. Worse than synchronicity, too. Reality has too many bloody cooks stirring the pot. Everyone brings their own carrots and taters and things to it, don't they? Then the majority rules. Like politics but there's no term limits so it's all that more pukingly pathetic. We've all seen how the majority goes, right? Fancy that running reality proper, do you? It leads to a mess, I tell you. Lions and tigers and bears, oh, my. If we all fucking clap hard enough, we'll get plenty of fairies and won't that be just grand? Those little twats with the sparkly wings, that Tinkerbell, they ain't nothing like the real Fey. It would serve all those poncy little girls right, maybe. Except the rest of us would have to suck it down, too, and it'd be worse than this piss beer you serve here.

... You know, maybe I am a bit far gone. Here, now. Settle up.

*

Only just barely missing the final step from the pub to the sidewalk, John grimaced and stuck his hands into his pockets to search out his Silk Cuts. He was just enough over the limit to have slipped into loose-tongued idiocy, rambling on like some card-carrying conspiracy lunatic, but not far enough to be happy sinking into the rosy glow of maudlin nostalgia. There would be no ghosts following him tonight and, for that, he was grateful. He had enough on his mind.

He paused beneath a streetlight and leaned back in the sickly yellow light, cool metal post running up and down his spine. Half-closing his eyes, he watched the shadows skitter across the roadway and ignored the urge to count them for future analysis. Instead, he pulled his hands from his pockets, cigarettes finally won, and set about resolutely choosing one. The task wasn't at all hard; the night's bout of drinking left him with exactly three and, for a moment, he thought wistfully of the machine back at the pub, safely locked behind doors now. He shrugged then, dismissing the image back into the pleasant fog of boozy memory, and tucked a cigarette between thin lips as a practiced flick of his wrist and hand brought the flame of his lighter to the end.

The first inhalation, sweet and deep, always felt like twenty seconds after orgasm. All was right in the world and you didn't yet have to think of an excuse to get you out of her flat.

Then, rubbing his hand over his face, he pushed away from the post and resumed his ambling way down the road. Everything was silent and dim, fog rolling in off the Thames. The streetlights barely made a dent in the midnight darkness and he shrugged his shoulders slightly inside his coat, readjusting the worn fabric with absent familiarity. Nothing worse than himself out. Mind, that was bad enough but it was all a matter of seeing and believing. John smirked a bit and slipped one hand back into his pocket, the other busily moving the lit cigarette to and from his lips. One foot in front of the other and all that nonsense.

It was good to walk, though. A lungful of cancerous smoke and smoggy air (London-flavored, only found in the god-awful, damned town, bless it) and all was right with the world. It cleared the head in some obscure, counter-intuitive manner. A brisk walk through midnight London always served as well as five cups of strong black coffee. Better even because it made the eyes sting faster and featured the additional fun of vagrants, violence, and vampires.

Blocks melted beneath his long-swinging legs, the habitual inhale-exhale of cigarette smoke barely slowing his progress. London was his city. He knew the reality of it better than anyone. He knew that here, yes, here, cars bolted right through the zebra crossing with nary a blink. Maybe they turned on their wipers but that was just to clear off the pedestrian gore, really. He almost smiled, passing the dim, tree-choked confines of Hyde Park. What was her name? Jacqueline? Something like that. Another bit of changeable reality, right there. He wondered if she remembered him.

Probably. Most of them did. If nothing else, John Constantine knew he was damningly memorable. His cross to bear if he went in for a bit of self-martyring. He wasn't in the mood tonight. The alcohol still sloshed in his system, making his blood warm and sluggish. The nicotine filled his lungs, soothing and familiar. A worn brick building loomed ahead, the misty fog drifting over it to hide the areas of crumbling brick. It looked almost picturesque that way, he decided. Nearly worth the rent he didn't pay.

Two flights of stairs took him to his front door and the customary twist-twist-jiggle-kick opened the door to spill him into the restrained biohazard zone of his flat. The old couch conformed to his lean form, cradling him as he pushed off shoes and tilted his head back to smile vaguely up at the ceiling, a new cigarette held between his lips. Ah, comfort.

A flash of bright color sparked in the corner of his eye and he grimaced before rolling onto his side and stretching out a hand to snatch at the offending item. The paper rustled and bent in his grip. The newsprint felt almost grimy beneath his fingertips. He studied it for a long moment.

Then, very deliberately, he brought the glowing end of the cigarette to the comic and smirked as the slow burn took out first one word, then another... Then, finally, the face of the madly dancing man with the haystack hair. So much for perception affecting his reality. Ambrose Bierce, indeed. Next up, time to find this Phil Foglio bastard and teach him the dirty reality of John Constantine.

Stanley and His Monster, indeed. Bollocks to that.

((For the sake of sanity, go to this link - http://i36.photobucket.com/albums/e43/shortcakegreen/stanley3.jpg - to see what the surly bastard destroyed!))

 


End file.
